As a nation, we are often caught up in the relentless hustle of daily life, heated political debates, and talking heads on TV advancing curated narratives, all while the real struggles of ordinary Kenyans remain unaddressed.
But there comes a time when stepping back to reflect on where we are and where we’re heading becomes imperative. Kenya finds itself at such a crossroads—a moment marked by the consolidation of power among a select few elites and the growing frustration of Wanjiku, who feels abandoned and powerless.
The streets of Kenyan towns echo with the frustration of a disillusioned citizenry as former political foes, once bitter rivals, now share meals, surrounded by sycophants singing their praises and social media parrots pushing narratives that serve elite interests. The divide between rich and poor has never felt starker, with a privileged few enjoying the opulence funded by taxpayers’ sweat while millions struggle to afford basic necessities.
In my native Suna East in Migori County, as in many parts of the country, the ruling class is viewed with disdain—seen not as leaders, but as self-serving power brokers with little regard for the people they claim to serve. This growing discontent is not just about economic hardship; it is about the political machinations of an elite class that prioritizes its own survival over the welfare of ordinary citizens.
The Mt. Kenya voting bloc, once a formidable political force, is now considered a lost cause for the regime following the catastrophic downfall of Rigathi Gachagua. Meanwhile, the Western Kenya vote is up for grabs, with ODM, Ford Kenya, DAP-K, and remnants of ANC all struggling to assert dominance. No single coalition can claim unchallenged control, leaving Wanjiku watching from the sidelines, her hopes fading with each new power shuffle.
Amid all this, Raila Odinga seems set to ascend to the African Union Commission (AUC). His persistence and long history of championing the rights of the downtrodden should be celebrated as a legacy for future generations. Yet, as Baba’s next chapter takes shape, uncomfortable questions emerge: Who truly benefits from these elite negotiations? What does this mean for Wanjiku? When my MP, Junet Mohamed, or Homa Bay Town MP Opondo Kaluma declare “hatutoki”, what does their presence in government mean for the people of Suna East and Homa Bay? Has their role in government been explained beyond the hollow rhetoric of political inclusion and the dangerous tribal narratives that continue to fuel division?
The frustration boiling among Kenyans has begun to manifest in more than just grumbling and social media outrage. The recent storming of the Ministry of Health boardroom by desperate patients was not just a protest against a failing healthcare system—it was a desperate cry for help from citizens who feel abandoned by a government more focused on power games than on addressing real struggles.
The so-called broad-based government is emblematic of this disconnection. To critics, the administration’s backing of Baba’s AUC bid and the appointment of ODM-aligned figures to key ministries are little more than strategic trade-offs designed to consolidate power. But what do these power plays mean for the common Kenyan? While the political elite reshuffles its alliances, Wanjiku is left to shoulder the burden of punitive taxes, a skyrocketing cost of living, and a system that appears to work against her rather than for her.
Even within the ruling coalition, loose cannons continue to embarrass the presidency with outdated Nyayo-era rhetoric, making ridiculous claims about securing power for decades. These tone-deaf pronouncements only serve to deepen the public’s perception that the political class is woefully out of touch with the realities of the ordinary Kenyan.
The decimation of a strong opposition has made things worse. While ODM figures like Senator Edwin Sifuna and Governor James Orengo continue to voice concerns, their words often ring hollow in an opposition landscape that has been systematically weakened. Criticism of government excesses has become more of a symbolic performance than a sustained fight for accountability.
At the same time, President William Ruto’s unwavering support for Baba’s AUC bid, despite resistance from within his own ranks, raises intriguing questions. Is he so confident in his administration’s ability to deliver that he feels unthreatened by ODM’s presence in government? Or is this a calculated move to keep ODM in a nominal opposition role while maintaining control? Could it be a deeper strategy aimed at ensuring his Cabinet remains under pressure to perform, laying the groundwork for his re-election bid?
Former President Uhuru Kenyatta’s recent remarks urging Gen Z to rise and fight add another layer of intrigue. Coming just after Cabinet Secretaries associated with him took office, his words hint at a deliberate distancing from the current administration. Perhaps his meeting with Ruto in Ichaweri was less about political alliance-building and more about solidifying his own legacy as an elder statesman. But the question remains: why would a president seeking to cement his authority surround himself with individuals who openly opposed his rise to power and actively resisted his policies for almost two years? Is this a masterstroke in political strategy, or a miscalculation that could cost him dearly?
As Kenya inches closer to 2027, one thing is certain: Wanjiku is exhausted. The next election will not just be about who wins—it will be about whether the voice of the people can finally break through the suffocating grip of elite power deals and machinations. The storming of the Ministry of Health boardroom was not an isolated incident; it was a warning. If leaders continue to ignore the struggles of ordinary Kenyans, the anger brewing beneath the surface will eventually boil over.
The youth, increasingly aware of their collective power, are no longer afraid to challenge the status quo. They are demanding more than just political rhetoric—they want real change. Optimists argue that Ruto still has a chance to prove his critics wrong. If he can deliver tangible results that improve lives, he may go down in history as the leader who reshaped Kenya’s political landscape. But if he fails, his downfall will not be his alone—it will be the failure of an entire political system that has for decades prioritized elite survival over the people’s welfare. And for many Kenyans, such a collapse may not be mourned but celebrated, if it means taking down with it the career politicians who have long overstayed their relevance in the political arena.
The countdown has begun. Wanjiku is watching. The question is no longer whether the political elite will hear her, but whether they will listen before it’s too late.
Dr. Hesbon Owila is a Media and Political Communications Researcher.
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